


For a Moment

by sweetfayetanner



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: F/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 10:05:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13385535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetfayetanner/pseuds/sweetfayetanner
Summary: Chapeau manages to find Maria-Eleanor in her loneliest moments. When she needs to flee the cruelty of the French nobility, Chapeau is there to comfort her.





	For a Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt and posted on Tumblr, I thought I'd add it here, too.

The ballroom is awash in gold and pastels, candles glittering from the chandeliers above, ladies and gentlemen of the nobility dressed in their finest gowns and suits. Chapeau likens it to an oil painting, a dream; something that looks quite real but isn’t. He’s watched them for the better part of an hour now while drenched in shadow, a sentry awaiting a call. 

They laugh and toss flirtatious looks about the room, strike up conversations they only pretend to be half interested in, and drink until their heads are swimming—like they’re all old friends, like their words are genuine. But Chapeau knows better; he’s heard the gossip from his Master’s lips. 

Half of these people, swathed in finery, absolutely  _despise_ each other. It’s a well-practiced act, but Chapeau sees hints of truth when others aren’t looking. A tiny expression, a whisper, a glance. 

And the lady of the household,  _Princesse_  Maria-Eleanor de Villeneuve, seems caught in the middle. Her husband  _le prince_ —and Chapeau’s unpleasant master—doesn’t seem to take notice. But he wouldn’t. 

Chapeau finds her lost in a sea of pastel petticoats and powdered wigs, dressed in a light blue  _sacque_. She’s powdered her wig to match. The color reminds Chapeau of her eyes and warm spring afternoons and how he’s fought so hard to keep feelings that shouldn’t exist where others won’t find them.

They’re talking about her, and it pains him most of all that she  _knows_. She’s an English rose trapped in the heart of the French countryside. 

As soon as Maria-Eleanor disappears in an alcove, slipping past the attention of her oblivious husband, Chapeau makes a fleeting decision to follow. He won’t be missed, and if anyone calls him into question, he’ll no doubt have some believable excuse to offer.

He finds her wearing a forlorn expression, fingers resting against her embroidered stomacher in an effort to take deep, even breaths. She’s pacing, but she stops the moment she sees him. They’re locked in a single moment, both of them staring at each other; Chapeau is vaguely aware of the strains of a harpsichord playing somewhere in the background.

“Monsieur Chapeau,” Maria-Eleanor whispers, stepping closer. She dares a look around as if someone will catch them, but Chapeau knows from prior experience that these alcoves have held their fair share of secrets.

She takes both his hands at once—his heart leaps into his throat—and pulls him back to the wall where she’s sure they won’t be spotted. Chapeau expects her to let go of him but she doesn’t, instead threading her fingers with his. 

“My lady,” he whispers back. “I…I can’t stand how they’re looking at you.” 

Maria-Eleanor stares down at her shoes. “What they think of me does not matter,” she says, but it sounds like a lie. “I’ve grown used to it.” 

When she finds his eyes again, Chapeau is brave enough to settle his hand against her cheek, his palm cradling her face. “You shouldn’t have to.” 

“I don’t intend to make friends with the people Francois surrounds himself with,” she answers. “I don’t need them.” 

Chapeau brushes his thumb across her cheek. “How lonely that must make you feel…” The statement comes out as a whisper, a tremble in his voice. 

“Not quite,” she tells him. Her petticoats rustle against his legs, her hand finding a place against his shoulder. Chapeau feels the warmth of her against his cheek, her breath ghosting along his jawline. 

She kisses his cheek. It’s not a brief kiss, like the night she found him in the castle kitchens drunk and bleeding from her husband’s violence. It lingers as if she doesn’t want to let go, and part of him wishes she wouldn’t. 

“Thank you,” Maria-Eleanor says before she parts from him, before a draft takes her place and leaves him chilled. 

He waits for her to disappear into the ebb and flow of petticoats and breeches, then resumes his duty, cast into the shadows. 


End file.
